Extraordinary Retribution (37 page)

The anguish in her eyes was too much for Lopez, his own sense of failure a weight around his neck. He left the room not knowing what would happen next. But the insanity was
over
. Whatever good or evil he had or had not done, the mad quest for vengeance had been completed. All that was left was the aftermath. Jail. Separation from Houston. Possible execution. All actions had their opposite reactions.
I’m coming back now, Sara. For as long as they let me stay with you.

Returning quickly into the center of the bunker structure, he was stunned to find that the wraith was
still there
: unmoved, sitting cross-legged amid the rubble that he had created. Lopez had not even raised the gun or taken any precautions walking back, so certain had he been that the assassin would have fled. Instead, he sat in the same place, in the same position, a statue drained of life. All energy seemed to have been taken from his form.

Lopez walked around to face him, his sense of danger lessened. Above, from the blasted hole, he thought he could hear sirens. Whether they were police or firefighters, it didn’t matter. Soon, every law enforcement and emergency response division at the local and federal level would converge on this location. With Houston incapacitated, there was no escaping them. It was better that they came, so that she could be seen to, taken to a hospital.

“Don’t let them take me.” The wraith’s words broke his concentration.

“What?” Lopez’s thoughts had consumed him, and he did not understand.

“Your gun. Use it on me now. Have your justice.”

Lopez stared at the shape in front of him.
What are you?
A tortured child. A lunatic. A fire that had purged the CIA.
A killer.

Images from the Tennessee cabin hit him like a blow.
You killed my brother.
He raised the gun and cocked it. “Yes, I should kill you now, you bastard. Before they arrive and arrest all of us and take that opportunity away from me forever. You are a
murderer
. You took my only brother away from me. You
should
die for it.”

Francisco Lopez aimed the weapon, a terrible anger flowing through him, welling up like an explosion. He pulled the trigger.

A hole was blown into the wall beside the wraith, dust and paint flakes raining across the floor. The killer was unharmed. “But I can’t kill you. Not anymore.”

The man looked up from the floor, confusion on his face. “Why can’t you kill me?” He seemed almost desperate.

Lopez sat down as well, the sirens much louder and the sound of men’s shouts ringing out above them. He pulled his knees up into his chest, fingering the weapon.

“I believed I would be a holy man by becoming a priest,” said Lopez, a sad smile on his face. “I thought that the sacrament of ordination would fill me with the Holy Spirit, and I would then overcome myself and march toward righteousness.” He laughed, pointing the barrel of the gun at his chest. “I always feared what was inside.
Terrible
things. Violence. Murder. Things to be suppressed.
Confessed
. I ran from it all, praying that God would cure me. But God has not.”

Lopez flipped the gun into the air and caught it. He repeated the process over and over as he spoke. “When I walked into that cabin in Gatlinburg and saw what you had done to my brother—things changed. I have chased you now for months. Not for justice. Justice is impartial. It is procedural. It is careful. I wanted none of those things. I wanted you dead. I wouldn’t let myself see it, but I wanted to kill you. I chased after you for vengeance.”

“So do it!” demanded the wraith. “Now you can! Take your vengeance!”

“Now I see you, see what others have done to you.
Good intentions pave the way to hell
. I see you are not a man. Not anymore. You are a warped and broken soul. You have already been to hell, and now you return carrying hell with you. Who am I to judge you after that?”

The wraith stood up, the sounds of men around the opening above them clear. Lopez glanced upward, as well. It was only a matter of minutes.

Suddenly the wraith pounced toward him, grasping him by the collar, shaking him violently. “If you know this,” said the wraith, a wild light in his eyes, “if you have the eyes to see the truth, then you
must
kill me!
”

Lopez struggled to free himself from the tight grip of the killer, but the man held on maniacally, his eyes wide. The wraith screamed at him. “You are right! Every waking moment is pain! Every conscious minute brings memories. Terrible memories. Only the hunt of my enemies gave me any relief, any distraction from the darkness that surrounds me, suffocates me, imprisons me! I killed my tormentors, but it’s
not over!
They will always torment me. Always break my fingers, violate me, burn me, drown me in water and in fear!”

Lopez leaned back stunned, the anguish and madness in the words nearly overwhelming. The veins stood out on the forehead of the crazed man. His teeth were bared like an animal’s. “Please! They will take me, they will lock me away for years!
Years!
Years and months and weeks and minutes of never-ending pain!”

The killer grabbed the priest’s hand and placed the barrel of the gun to his temple. “
End it!
I deserve death for the death I have brought, for the suffering of others, for the weeping of widows and children, for the torture of Miller. If you have risen above your hatred, kill me both for justice and for mercy’s sake!” The wraith fell on his knees, his face pleading.

Lopez jumped backward, barely tearing loose, staring at the man’s wild and haunted eyes. He looked down at him in horror, the full malignancy of the man’s soul visible like a vision. As in confession, the guilt and pain of another washed over him, and he felt the poison of the man’s sins. It was nearly incapacitating.

Like confession.
Lopez closed his eyes, remembering his brother’s last words to him in the confessional. Words spoken in anguish before he had bolted from the church. Lopez had never given him absolution.

The shouts above commingled with the sounds of feet rushing down the stairway across from them. Men were entering the bunker.

Lopez stood up, dust and bits of rubble sliding off his clothes. He made the Sign of the Cross over the crumpled figure beneath him. He no longer had the authority to forgive sins; a corrupt bishop in Alabama had taken that from him. He was no longer a priest, and for all he knew, no longer even in Communion with the Church.

He didn’t give a damn.

He placed his hand on the head of the wraith. “
Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti
.” He stepped backward and raised the gun. “
Amen
.” He aimed the weapon at the killer’s head.

The wraith stared at him and then closed his eyes. He spoke his last words. “Thank you.”

“You there!” came a shout from across the room. “Drop the weapon and place your hands above your head!”

Lopez pulled the trigger. The shot blasted open the face of the man, and the body rolled heavily over on its side. It spasmed for several seconds, and then remained still.

“
Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine
,” he said, lowering the weapon to his side. “
Et lux perpetua luceat ei. Requiescat in pace. Amen
.”

He felt a jarring impact from behind and was thrown to the floor. His hands were jerked behind his back, and he felt cuffs slapped onto them tightly.

“You have the right to remain silent,” said a panting voice, “anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Lopez did not resist. Events had reached their ending point. The CIA agents were gone, their leaders slaughtered. The vice president was silenced. The wraith himself was dead at Lopez’s own hand. He and Houston were caught.

Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy upon us sinners.

63

“S
he’s hurt, damn it! Be careful with her!” Lopez yelled.

The world seemed in chaos. The dim morning was lit up like a carnival with six or seven police cars flashing their lights like strobes. The cackling of radio transmissions came from multiple directions, and spotlights were trained on him and the men escorting Houston out of the town car. The wailing call of fire trucks approaching brought an additional cacophony, and those firefighters who had already arrived were rushing around trying to quench the burning home. Behind him, the sounds of the popping wood and falling timbers blended into the ocean of noise.

The police officers shoved him forward, the movements wrenching his shoulders, his cuffed hands locked tightly behind him. They were treating Houston similarly, and she was barely staying on her feet. The sight of her abused this way drove him mad.

Exerting a wild force, Lopez yanked himself backward momentarily out of their grasp. The two officers holding him were thrown sideways, one stumbling to the ground. They scrambled to grab him and regain control, and he shouted at them as they approached.

“She’s wounded!” He lowered his shoulder and blocked one officer to the side. “If you don’t stop manhandling her, I’m going to resist arrest all the way to doomsday, and I’ll bloody the hell out of anyone who tries to get near!” For emphasis, he kicked at the men approaching him. One raised a Taser.

“Don’t make me use this on you!” came the frightened youthful voice from the uniformed man.

“Do it! And when I’m done pissing my pants, I’ll kick you even harder!”

The young officer looked over to his superiors with a concerned expression. An older policeman marched over and shoved the younger man aside.

“Listen to me,
priest
, we know who you two are. We’ve had the Feds on the line directing us here. We know what you and that woman can do, what you
have
done! And there is no way in hell we’re going to let you do here what you did up in New York. I suggest you cooperate, and then we’ll have the murderess seen to by someone all the faster. There she can spend some of the good and honest taxpayers’ money to treat her injuries.”

The officer’s face was hard like stone, and Lopez knew the man meant it. These troops were actually
afraid
to be around Houston and himself. It was stunning. In the process of trying to destroy them, the CIA monsters had managed to create two legends.
Infamous legends
.
False legends.
But were any legends ever true? He lowered his head and let the officers secure him once more.

“Better,” said the older officer. “Don’t do anything else stupid.”

They pushed them across the driveway, past their stolen town car, and toward the sea of police vehicles and arriving fire trucks. It was a scene out of a disaster film. Already numerous bodies on the ground had been covered with blankets, and yellow police tape was being pulled across nearly every available space. Heads turned with angry glares in their direction from officers and firemen alike. He and Houston were despised monsters.

Suddenly, there was a growing sound of engines approaching from the gate. Lopez looked out across the property and noticed four dark sedans with internal flashing sirens rushing up the driveway. Following closely behind was a black truck with white “FBI” lettering across its side. It looked like a special forces vehicle or one for prisoner transport.

Some policemen stopped the lead car midway, conversed with the driver briefly as Lopez was dragged forward, and then waved it on. It raced toward them, pulling to a stop right in front of Lopez and the men leading him. The truck pulled up seconds later behind the other cars. It looked like someone important had arrived.

A man and a woman leapt out of the lead vehicle and approached quickly. The male looked to be in his mid-forties, broad of build, with salt-and-pepper hair, olive skin. He was dressed in a dark suit. The woman was dressed formally as well, a black pantsuit and a white shirt that set off her long chestnut hair. A large badge hung from around her neck. Five uniformed agents in SWAT gear carrying shotguns and submachine guns leapt out of the van and converged behind the suits. Their weapons were held at the ready, and their eyes focused intently on Lopez and Houston.

“FBI Agent John Savas,” called the man, flashing a badge to the officers. “Who’s in command here?”

The older officer stepped forward. “That’s me. Captain Dan Siggia of the Maryland State Police.” He looked at their badges and the imposing mass of the Special Weapons and Tactics Team behind them. “You’re Feds?”

“I’m Special Agent-in-Charge of the Intel 1 Division at CTD. This is Agent Rebecca Cohen, also of Intel 1.” He nodded toward the woman.

“Counterterrorism? What brings you here? These terrorists now?”

“Unclear,” said Savas. “But I was in DC and was called urgently to this address on actionable intelligence—the threat to the life of the former VPOTUS.” He glanced up at the ruin around him. “It seems that call was accurate.”

“He’s dead,” said the officer, his expression a scowl. “Murdered along with an army of Secret Service agents by these killers.”

Lopez couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That’s a lie! We came here to save the vice president! It was the wraith! A killer, a victim of the CIA renditions program! You have to call— “

Savas backhanded Lopez across the face. “You will keep your mouth shut, you vermin! We’ve got a pretty little limo waiting for you two, and we’re going to put you in it and drive you to a place you don’t want to go.” The agent’s eyes were furious.

The state policemen looked over shocked, and with some awe and admiration. Savas motioned to the armored SWAT team, and they approached, pointing weapons at Lopez and Houston.

Lopez just stared at the FBI man. It was insane. After everything, after all the lies and deaths, all their efforts to find the truth, that they would also be tarnished with this last murder! The demonization of their persons was complete. He wanted to scream. He wanted to curse at God for the injustice of it all. The words from the Book of Job came unbidden to his mind, even as he tried to push them away:
“Make me know my transgression and my sin. Why dost thou hide thy face, and count me as thy enemy?”